


Damn Well Maybe

by Winterum



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Foreplay, M/M, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterum/pseuds/Winterum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl is a vision on all fours, Rick thinks. Upright and filthy, with a crooked sneer, he’s dangerous. Untouchable. Opinionated with just a thin narrowing of the eyes.</p><p>But here, lying prostrate, back muscles long and streamlined like a prowling jungle cat, Rick finds his bones aching from desire. There's no fear. No hesitation. None of the usual priority of matters that holds him back from this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damn Well Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Sentimental smut. Enjoy.

Daryl is a vision on all fours, Rick thinks. Upright, and filthy, with a crooked sneer, he’s dangerous. Untouchable. Opinionated with just a thin narrowing of the eyes.

But here, lying prostrate, back muscles long and streamlined like a prowling jungle cat, Rick finds his bones aching from desire. There's no fear. No hesitation. None of the usual priority of matters that holds him back from this.

* * *

 

Rick sits back on his haunches, admiring the way Daryl displays for him, legs spread wide, ass hitched into the air. The knobs of his spine are prominent and bold on the flushed skin of his back. He thinks the normally quiet and private man is gritting his teeth from embarrassment, but it’s hard to see from this angle.

Rick traces the red of Daryl's swollen cock with his eyes- the wet hang of it between his thighs like a metaphor of forbidden fruit. Rosy from the rush of blood, and juicy plump in its thickness. He wants nothing more than to suckle on the head, fuck his tongue into the pretty slit, saliva wet muscle against sensitive skin.

He presses in close, warm breath fanning out over Daryl's sensitive perineum, the velvety skin there now flushed an attractive pink from arousal.

"Wider," Rick murmurs, gravelly and low against the shy pink pucker housed between Daryl's asscheeks. The hunter hisses at the warm breath of air before shuffling himself self consciously. Seconds later, he's bearing down, and opening up.

Daryl's arms tremble from the effort, not from exertion though- Rick's seen him strain those biceps for days on end without a tremor. So this, this is arousal and shame, and everything not another damn soul is supposed to see.

Rick exhales loudly, and presses a wet sloppy kiss against the curve of Daryl's buttocks. He pulls away with a hot sense of satisfaction when it rouses a subdued mewl that borders on a gruff sigh.

Rick breaches the wrinkled tight pucker with a slick slide, leaning his nose into Daryl's dusky crevice. He rims the winking entrance until Daryl's clenching his teeth, a trill of moans coming out from the back of his throat. The hunter grounds back against the slick fucking, nails pulling lines into the sheets below.  _Goddamn sonnuva fuck_ , he'd never imagined his body would want this, mouth and tongue and saliva up his ass like a bitch in heat. 

“Fuck ya, Grimes,  _fuck_ -”, he manages, voice breaking in between rough grunts. Rick laughs into him, mouth lavishing the twitching opening with a soft flirty suction. Daryl's walls are silky smooth and greedy around his tongue, clutching on to him with a punishing grip. Rick sinks his tongue in deeper, pushing in and out with wet pleasurable thrusts. He wants Daryl so dripping and fucked out after all this that there’s no way for him to put on his pants. No way for him to swing his legs over the shitty metal cot, and leave him like they were only sharing a desperate combat jack.

The way Shane Walsh left a seventeen year old Rick Grimes twenty something years ago, cum still cooling on his stomach hairs, no longer a virgin. 

Rick’s breathless as he watches Daryl maneuver himself into a more comfortable set of his knees. He squirms a bit when the saliva drips down to his balls, but Rick more than eagerly plugs the sloppy liquid back in with his fingertips.

Daryl hisses at the sudden intrusion, but otherwise doesn't react to pull away. He's slick enough from the tonguing that there's not too much resistance when Rick nudges the first knuckle of his middle finger in. There’s no grunt for him to stop, so Rick takes it as much of an invitation the hunter will ever give him.

The silence between them is delicate and fragile, as if a word from either of them would give this insanity a premature death. There's only the whispers of fingers caressing skin, and the wet noises of clenching suction. 

Rick slowly teases another fingertip into the warm tight channel, mesmerized by the way Daryl’s body so easily accommodates him. He considers asking if Daryl’s done this before, maybe to himself, after a long tiring day of walker kills and bike grease. If he’d maybe slipped thick fingers into the lube and wondered, legs propped apart, cock twitching in interest behind rough cargo pants. 

Rick nearly loses it then, mouth dry, and head spinning. The thought goes straight to his dick, making it swell up and above the cradle of his thighs. His vision goes for a short second before he's reigning himself in with a sharp bite on the inside of his cheek. 

The pain clears his mind. Rick returns his focus to tugging Daryl open, fingers coaxing and scissoring. The calloused skin must be such a startling contrast against smooth inner flesh. It draws out a grinding of teeth.

“Hur’y up,  _three_ , com’mon, where’s yer efficiency, Grimes,” Daryl hisses under his breath, thrusting his hips back on to Rick’s fingers. The tight heat envelopes them all the way to his last knuckle. Rick bites him on the side of his hips where there’s just the beginning swell of his ass. His teeth don’t go in far, but it’s enough to shut Daryl up with a shiver. 

“Slow down”, Rick admonishes, breath heavy. He isn’t stupid enough to listen to Daryl’s nerves. At least not in this. It takes a few minutes for them to establish a rhythm, Daryl’s rim deliciously warm around Rick’s knuckles, the slide getting easier by the minute. He doubts he'll ever look at his pointer and index again without remembering this.

Rick reads all the body cues Daryl gives him, the infinitesimal shift of shoulders, hips, and shuddering of thighs. For how slow they move with one another, it almost seems like they are underwater, and perhaps, they are.

Daryl flexes his fingers, knuckles having gone sore from clutching the sheets so tightly. His eyes shudder close, lips opened in a silent oval when Rick fists his own cock, and nudges the tip into Daryl. 

Halfway through, Rick has to tug on either side of the flesh around his length, stretching the passage to accommodate himself. 

Daryl bites down on his wrist, hard enough that the skin breaks under a tooth. His nerves are singing in protest, and he goddamn swears he can feel every centimeter of flushed dick pulsing inside. He has to tell himself that it's impossible to die of embarrassment. To die, hell yea, there were endless possibilities that could make a man kick the bucket these days. But not this. Fuck, he's not goin' like this. 

Daryl blinks back the sweat sliding into the corner of his eyes. He’s done Rick before with his hands, quick hushed moments in the thickets of the forest. Daryl’s aware of his size, and it’s nothing extraordinary or impressive. Average. Maybe a little above average. Yet it feels like so much more right now. 

It’s a different pain from the leather beltings of his teen years, or the tumble over the ravine, the broken bones and ripped skin in between. It’s a hell of a lot more personal, and Daryl feels hot and tense all over. There's so much responding adrenaline in his system that he's either going to sock Rick in the jaw, or push him to the ground.  

Rick holds still, but even then the slightest jostle hurts Daryl, sending them both into anxious tremors. The hunter's back is slippery with sweat against his chest, and the muscles strung tight with discomfort. Rick tries to rub comforting circles into Daryl's flanks, thumbs riding over the ridges of bone.

It’s only when Daryl snorts, this dry sarcastic huff of breath, that Rick blinks his eyes open. He’s not sure what he’s been murmuring, but it’s enough to tease out a wry chuckle from the hunter. 

“Damn right, next time yer takin’ it.”

Rick barks out a surprised laugh, feeling the tightness in his chest ease off a bit. Daryl's smirk defuses the high tension between them. Injects some kind of playful buoyancy in the uncomfortable silence. And that, well, Rick doesn’t find the idea disagreeable- being catcher. His ears are already heating up.

As long as there’s a next time. And he says as much.

Rick feels Daryl trying to relax around him- this tentative squeeze and release, followed by a deliberate shifting movement. It’s a struggle to not let himself go, to not dig himself deep in Daryl’s body, and relish the silken passage, so wet with his spit. 

Eventually Daryl lowers his arms onto the thin old mattress, and sighs. Rick follows him down, careful to maintain his own weight. Their lips skim across each other’s like a dry accidental caress. Daryl brushes his thumb across Rick’s mouth. His eyes go dark when Rick takes it between his teeth and tongue. Scraping gently above, and laving wetly below. In a moment of courage, Rick hollows his cheeks out and sucks hard enough that there's a loud wet squelch. 

There's a muffled tangle of something that sounds like  _fuck_  and _Rick_. 

It’s Daryl that moves his hips first, a subtle roll that pushes his ass up and backwards. The movement nudges Rick’s cock into him on a sweet angle that drags the head over sensitive walls. There’s a simultaneous groan, and this time, Rick’s confident that it’s of pleasure from both ends.

He lets Daryl move for them, working those strong hips into rolling waves. It’s strange, at first, to let the hunter lead from beneath him, but Rick’s hardly complaining. His breath hitches with every thrust, still painfully slow and lazy, fingers tightening around Daryl’s bicep with each slide.

Rick slips a hand beneath Daryl’s chest, and traces pectoral muscles and nipples. The small nubs pebble beneath his gentle scratching, and there’s that pleasant sound Daryl makes in his throat. A sort of swooping sound of tickled laughter, rolled into a soft moan. Other times it's an indignant yowl that makes Rick want to play with them even more, pulling at the brown tips with knuckles squeezed together. He wants to get his mouth on them one day. Wants to push his head up Daryl's frayed cut off shirt, grab fistfuls of his back muscles, and suck. 

Daryl is wet in his fingers, the head of his shaft leaking rivulets of precum. Rick alternates between running his fingers along the straining vein, and squeezing the hefty base. Daryl scrabbles a hand over his to encourage a firmer grim, to which he gladly indulges, working his wrist into wicked half twists. 

Rick presses his face into Daryl’s neck, taking deep gulps of the sweaty musk as he finally starts thrusting in earnest. It’s like taking a deep breath of nature and wilderness, after being in the same suffocating square of air for ages. It feels so good that he has to slow down periodically to make it last. 

Daryl’s erection is hot and eager in his palm, twitching in movement on every down stroke. He sets the rough ragged pace that he knows Daryl likes, paying extra attention to work his fingers around the moist head. It almost helps to fist Daryl's cock while pushing into him. They're still sliding a bit on the mattress, but it's more of a rocking movement.

“Fuck-”, Daryl suddenly spits out. Rick freezes, until the hunter is slapping at his elbow with a desperate expression. “ _There_. Yeah, yeah, fuck. Ain’t gonna break, com’mon Rick, com'mon asshole cop.”

Rick can’t help pressing his lips heatedly against Daryl’s shoulder. His mouth sweeps across nape and wing bones, open to taste the salty sweat. He suddenly wishes they’d done this another way, face to face instead. Daryl’s skin is hot on his lips, the thorough tan now a faint pink from arousal. He thrusts harder, hitting that spot every time, baited by the quicksilver moan that slips from Daryl’s lips each time.

And when they're both close, the sounds they make become successive groans, in tandem to the rapid movements of their hips. Rick’s precum makes the contracting and dilating entrance wet and easy, filling it up until Daryl’s squeezing back. So good, Rick thinks incoherently, so fucking good, Daryl. 

There’s a quick few twitches in warning before Daryl’s spilling over his fingers. It dribbles over Rick’s knuckles and into the webbing between his thumb, pointer, and middle, warm and sticky. Rick takes half a shuddering breath to orientate himself before pushing back in, savoring the filthy thrust one last time before he’s coming with a name that's breathless on his lips.

_Daryl._

* * *

 

It’s a few minutes later that Daryl rolls out from under Rick, hair matted against the sides of his face. His breathing has quieted, though Rick’s own still sounds loud and raspy between them. He’s a bit envious that Daryl can even move, because he’s still exhausted and boneless from the haze of pleasure.

If the hunter decides to kick into his boots, then Rick doubts he can catch up, limbs fumbling stupidly. 

But it seems Daryl isn't in a hurry, at least in this moment. He's nicked a wrinkly cigarette from somewhere on the floor, left forgotten in their rush of stripping. 

Rick allows himself the guilty pleasure of watching Daryl, stretched on his back, eyes lost in thought. There's a soft frown tugging at the corner of his lips, but not one that warrants any cold fear in Rick's gut. 

The sun should be low on the horizon by now. There’s that feeling of evening slowness, and the visual of thin golden streaks of light spilling in through the small row of windows lining the cell wall. He imagines the way it would play across Daryl’s hair, now so much darker from its former shade of sun bleached dirty blond. He smiles tiredly as Daryl stretches out his arms, pillowing his head on them afterwards. The cigarette gets tucked behind the top of his ear like an afterthought. 

Rick's no longer as young as he was when all of this started- the spats with Lori, the silence with Carl, and the punches with Shane. All now in the past, left in the dust, left in memories that haunt. He's no longer foolishly optimistic, or even as forgiving. But he reasons he's allowed to feel sentimental sometimes, young once in a while maybe.

He reasons he's allowed to chance for a kiss. 

* * *

 

Daryl's lips don't open for him. They stay closed and still while Rick mouths along the seam, tongue skirting around chapped skin.

Daryl observes him through half lidded eyes. 

Eventually the hunter slips a hand into Rick's hair, fingers tangling in the dark curls. There's a catch when a lock stubbornly knots around Daryl's pointer, and Rick's eyes water from the unexpected prick of pain. But then it's over, and Daryl's hand slides smoothly through his hair like he's combing it lazily. 

Eyes closed, and chest snug, Rick doesn't realize the moment Daryl starts kissing him back. Tongue warm against his, tangling with a ease like they've been doing this for years. Like there was never a before, or after. Only this, stretching out for as long as they dare imagine, and as far as their legs can carry them. 

Somewhere in the press of lips and roaming of hands, Daryl tells him he's not leaving. The silent words taste gruff, maybe even reserved, but Rick reads them loud and clear, and swallows.There's a meal in Daryl's steadfast loyalty and unspoken trust, a mouthful offered of liquid desire, and burning love.

Rick takes it all in greed, and gives Daryl his heart, skin, and bones, praying that it's enough to see them through. Another turn of the year, another summer breeze, another song of Carl's laughter, another quip of dry wit sarcasm. And if he's lucky, another shot at heaven on earth like this- a rusty cot, dirty mouths, and Daryl pressed to him like a second skin. 

He thinks,  _maybe_. He damn well really thinks it. 

 


End file.
